A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  “I thought the situation was under control as well – he keeps quiet about what he knows, he stays alive and gets a pension. But now I am not so sure.”

  Judge Sopheap reached for a tissue from a lacy receptacle on his desk and dabbed his high forehead. “I think you are making too much of this – I am sure we can trust him. I explained the situation when I met him.”

  “They are all talking too much. Not just Huon. Why would Ta Ieng speak of killing the children? Is he trying to make himself important? They are showing off to the court and the press and the public…”

  “Even if you are right, what can I do?” Sopheap took off his glasses and pressed an index finger and thumb against his closed eyelids. Trying to reverse the pressure he could feel from the inside. It dismayed him that the caller knew so much of the day’s events. He had observers present, determined to shroud the past in secrecy to the extent it affected his interests. So much for truth and reconciliation, he thought bitterly. Like Cambodia itself, this tribunal was becoming a battleground of competing interests.

  “You must stop him from revealing any further secrets – don’t give him any opportunity to speak.”

  “I cannot stop him from testifying. It’s not my decision. There is no way the other judges will agree, not even the Cambodians.” He could hear the pleading note in his own voice, begging tones that held so many echoes of the past. The muscles in his shoulders and neck were tense with memories. He added, “Already there was surprise from the other judges when I halted the testimony of Cheah Huon. I had to say I was feeling ill.”

  The caller wilfully misunderstood his point. “You did well – but we must have a more permanent solution.”

  “Give me time to think of something…”

  “There is no time,” snapped the man at the other end. “Perhaps I could arrange for the other judges to fall ill – Cambodian food can be very suspect sometimes.”

  Sopheap shook his head, trying to dislodge the fear that preyed on his mind like maggots on a corpse. He picked up his glasses and put them on carefully. He looked out of the window. A row of saffron-robed monks with shaved heads was accepting alms from strangers. Some of the monks were mere youths, novitiates learning the way of the Buddha. He too had spent a part of his boyhood in a rural wat being trained by the monks. It was a rite of passage for boys of his generation. But then the Khmer Rouge had exterminated the monks – they were ‘useless mouths’ without value in the godless, lawless Cambodia of Pol Pot. Unfortunately, despite the peaceful image of monks re-integrated within Khmer society outside his window, parts of Cambodia remained lawless and godless.

  Sopheap tried to sound reasonable, thoughtful – fearless. “It doesn’t matter if you replace all the judges with your henchmen, such a decision – to prevent further testimony – will cause consternation. It will be in the newspapers – the foreign press too. It won’t solve anything. Instead, questions will be asked. Your secret will surely be found out.”

  “Very well – I understand your difficulty.”

  Sopheap sighed – an audible sound of relief that must have carried to his caller.

  “That is good. I am sure you have nothing to worry about and he won’t say anything. You are quite safe.” He was using too many words, prolonging the conversation when he needed to terminate it, his fear making him garrulous and incoherent.

  “Oh! I’m not worried,” explained the man.

  Something in his tone filled the judge with foreboding. He asked the question, pulling nervously at a loose strand of red thread on his gown. “What do you mean?”

  “One way or another – and I really don’t care how you do it – you have to stop Cheah Huon from talking…”

  “But how am I to do that?” spluttered Sopheap, flecks of saliva landing on the papers on his desk. The pattern reminded him of the configuration of bullet wounds from an automatic weapon.

  “You’re a smart man – I’m sure you’ll think of something. Otherwise…otherwise, you know what will happen.”

  ♦

  Singh was slumped in an armchair in his hotel room contemplating the day’s testimony. He cast his mind back to when he had investigated a murder in the aftermath ot the terrorist bombings in Bali. At the time, it had seemed that the callous snatching of life in a terrorist attack, without any nexus between murderer and victim, was the most grievous expression of cold-blooded murder possible. He would have to revise that thought. The murder of innocents without malice aforethought but with a cynical, clinical cruelty over a period of months and years, that was worse. Kill or be killed, torture or be tortured, follow orders or have the same fate befall one as the would-be victims.

  He cast his mind back over the murders he had investigated over the years. So many killers, so many victims, so many motives – but none as powerful as the desire for revenge. And yet, as far as he was aware, there had been no attempt on the life of Samrin or Ta Ieng. Was this society that forgiving? He remembered the eleven ex-Khmer Rouge who had been killed recently. Perhaps not.

  He wondered idly – the policeman in him was like a dog with a bone when there was even a hint of murder in the offing – whether the wave of killings had been sparked by the commencement of the trials. It could be that repressed memories had surfaced with the tribunal or that the testimony of a witness had acted as a trigger. Otherwise, why were the murders happening now, after all these years?

  There was a sharp knock on the door which he had already learnt to identify as belonging to Chhean. Her aggressive rat-a-tat was quite different to the gentle scratching of room service. He opened the door with trepidation. He was not sure if he could cope with Chhean’s view of the world – black and white with no shades of grey.

  Chhean was as crisp and efficient as ever. “It is time for dinner. We will go to a street market for food. It will give you a chance to understand Cambodian culture.”

  Singh, unusually for him, was feeling a complete lack of inclination for dinner. The testimony that afternoon had destroyed his appetite, he who had always gone home after a grisly day at the office and tucked into a good meal cooked by his skinny wife.

  “What is the matter? Why do you not answer?” demanded Chhean, excluded from this sudden wistfulness.

  “Nothing – it’s fine. Let’s go.” He should venture out into Phnom Penh. He needed to see a more normal aspect of Cambodian life – to believe that the horrors he listened to daily were not the sum of the place or the people.

  Chhean led him directly to a small motorbike. She whipped a cloth out from under the seat and wiped it down.

  “You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Singh.

  Chhean, who was always serious, looked at him, smooth brow creased into puzzled lines. “What is the matter?”

  “I’m not getting on that thing!”

  “But I have no car. The driver has gone home – also there is traffic. Moto is the best way. Very fast.”

  Chhean, her short legs straddling the machine, sat as far forward as possible to make room for him. Singh adjusted himself to make sure his centre of gravity was firmly in the middle of the seat and felt the scooter sink under his weight. He wondered about the Cambodian etiquette on pillion riding – was it acceptable to clutch at this small, square human being who was young enough to be his daughter?

  “You must hold on!” said Chhean, revving the small engine. It sounded like a lawn mower.

  It was soon apparent that their moto, despite the presence on it of a Sikh gentleman of ample proportions, was lightly laden compared to the others. Another one sped by, driven at speed by a teenage boy with at least four other children hanging off it. All were laughing, tongues hanging out in delight like dogs next to an open car window.

  The dust in the air was making his eyes and nose smart. Chhean had tied her krama, the ubiquitous Cambodian multi-purpose scarf, around her face and he noticed a number of other drivers and riders had done the same. He wished his turban had the same flexibility of use.

  He shouted o
ver the wind whistling in his ears as if he was in a wind tunnel. His voice was hoarse. “What did you think about today?”

  There was silence up front although he felt her back stiffen. He had dispensed with considerations of etiquette and was now hanging on to Chhean like a lover.

  He was about to repeat his question when she said, “Someone should murder them!”

  “Who?”

  “Samrin, Duch, Ta Ieng – the whole lot.”

  They came to a standstill at a crossroads. One road led directly towards a large yellow Art Deco building that was teeming with people.

  “This is where we buy dinner. New Market.”

  “Is it new?” asked Singh doubtfully, looking at the architecture and the peeling paint.

  “No, no – more than seventy years old,” she said impatiently. “Sometimes people call it Central Market.”

  “Oh! It’s centrally located,” said Singh, trying to get his bearings.

  “No – actually we are not near the centre of Phnom Penh.”

  She looked at his bemused face and cracked a smile. “You try Cambodian food.”

  Singh looked at the nearest vendor. Various insects had been fried and stuck on a spit. Singh shook his head while Chhean purchased a stick with a handful of riel and dragged a toasted grasshopper off with her neat, even teeth.

  A stray dog with a mangy coat and teats hanging so low that they brushed the ground looked longingly at Chhean.

  She tossed a fried insect on the ground and the dog pounced on it. “This is a brave dog,” she muttered.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Singh, taking a step backwards to get away from the creature and almost knocking over a trolley of pirated CDs.

  “A few years ago, the mayor said we should all eat more stray dogs to keep down the population in Phnom Penh.”

  “Dog or human population?” demanded Singh. Surely – taste for dogs or not – no one would eat a creature in the condition of this unhappy animal?

  The inspector turned away hurriedly and walked down the road. He immediately developed a following of small, grubby children with wide eyes and brown skin. A particularly dirty child, naked except for a large pair of shorts tied on firmly with a piece of twine, tugged at his elbow. The child held out an arm that was covered from shoulder to wrist in watches, mostly of the plastic digital variety.

  Singh turned to Chhean helplessly as balloons, sunglasses and baseball caps were thrust at him, a fat imposing figure in a pointy krama defeated by a few persistent children. “What should I do?” he asked plaintively. “I don’t want any of this stuff.”

  “You don’t want anything – you keep walking,” she said firmly, shooing away the nearest set of children with a firm hand. They were immediately replaced by another lot, pleased to get to the front of the ‘fleece the foreigner’ queue.

  “But they need the money,” said Singh helplessly.

  “Everyone in Cambodia needs money,” she responded tartly. “Do you have enough for all of them?”

  ♦

  The restaurant had a cheery air with its checked red-and-white table cloths and smell of freshly baked bread. The workers were Cambodian, smiling and young. They must have wondered what an old barang was doing, sitting in a French café in Phnom Penh, drinking steadily through their beer supply. Or maybe it was common enough. Perhaps the only unusual aspect of François’s presence was that he was not accompanied by a nubile creature, young enough to be his daughter – or granddaughter – like the sex tourists that he had noticed out and about in the city. It was extraordinary that such blatant exploitation went unchecked and unpoliced. Yet another consequence of poverty and corruption, he supposed. Was this the future that his children – probably long dead, such beautiful girls both of them – had avoided?

  His mind replayed the image of the painting at Tuol Sleng. For a painful second, it had seemed to him that the figure was that of his wife, the baby being torn from her arms, his baby. It was unlikely that the artist had set about to record events that affected his family. But the part that had caused his knees to give way beneath him and the strength to leave his body was that it could have been his family. Not in the painting, but in reality. If his wife had ended up in a Khmer Rouge prison – if the children had been taken away from her – exactly such a scene might have been enacted. He knew she would have fought to keep them, her children and his children. She would have fought while he remained in the safety of his home in Paris.

  There was a sudden commotion at the door and a young man swaggered in accompanied by a collection of thugs, some wearing the uniform of the Cambodian police. François, glancing past them, saw a fleet of Mitsubishi Pajeros pulled up outside. He guessed that this was the son of a Government bigwig or powerful businessman. He had heard that these young men in their expensive designer clothing were a law unto themselves in Phnom Penh. This punk was dressed in black: black silk shirt, black suit with thin leg-hugging trousers and black boots with pointy ends. He was wearing shades although it was late evening. Now, he sat down and shouted for drinks. Immediately, the serving staff hurried over with platters of food and bottles of beer. He waved aside the beer and one of his entourage reached into a bag and retrieved a bottle of Johnny Walker, Gold Label. Only the best for daddy’s boy, thought François snidely. His disdain must have been visible on his face because one of the men leaned over and whispered into the ear of his paymaster.

  The young man swivelled slowly in his chair until he was facing François, his eyes still hidden behind sunglasses. He was a handsome youth with a slightly dissipated air and midnight-black hair swept away from a narrow forehead.

  “What are you staring at, grandpa?” He spoke the fluent French of an overseas-educated youth from a well-heeled family.

  François shook his head to indicate a negative.

  “I saw you staring. Do you deny it?”

  “I really was not looking at you,” explained the Frenchman.

  Responding to an unseen signal, a large man wearing the green of a military policeman came over and picked François up by the scruff of his neck so that his feet were barely touching the ground. He shouted something in Khmer and there were loud guffaws from his audience. Gaudin noticed that the waitresses were watching the scene with trepidation. He hoped one of them would call the authorities and then remembered that it was a policeman that had him by the collar.

  The youth had a swig of whisky. He said, “I hate the French. See what they have done to my country.”

  François did not respond. He didn’t even really disagree. Tired of his weak prey, the antagonistic youngster gestured with a languid hand. The large man dragged François outside and threw him to the dusty ground. He kicked him a couple of times in the ribs with a heavy boot and said in a guttural voice, “Next time you don’t look at my boss if you don’t want to get hurt.”

  François waited for him to go back in, sat up slowly and painfully and threw up suddenly all over his shirt.

  “You must be careful in Phnom Penh,” explained the driver of one of the Pajeros in a not-unfriendly tone. Apparently they did their master’s bidding but did not feel obliged to entertain his prejudices.

  François nodded, his breath coming in painful gasps. So, this was the Cambodia of today – a place where young males commanded the loyalty of policemen with their father’s wealth. He tried to wipe his shirtfront with a handkerchief and abandoned it as a waste of effort. The pain and adrenaline had cleared his head of the alcohol and he stood up slowly, holding on to a concrete pillar.

  “If you got cash, you’re the boss – you understand?” The driver was bored and talkative. He added helpfully, “In Cambodia, money can buy you anything.”

  To François’s ears, he sounded almost proud of this feature of Cambodian society, as if it was an attribute to attract tourists: Cambodia, Kingdom of Wonder – where money can buy you anything.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Anything you want,” responded the other man cheerfully.


  Six

  The dead man lay on his back, arms flung out on either side, hands hanging limply at the wrists. The position reminded Colonel Menhay of the stylised depictions of the crucifixion. The policeman, standing at the open doorway, was reluctant to step in, as if he knew that once he had taken ownership of this body, this room, this crime – he would be in over his head. He had no difficulty identifying the victim. Cheah Huon’s head was turned to one side so that the scar tissue that had distinguished him at the trial the previous day was clearly visible. If that was not enough, his wooden leg was at right angles to his body. The clasp had probably snapped as he fell to the ground. The wooden leg looked farcical. There was to be no dignity in death for this poor fellow. The colonel’s shoulders hunched, foreshortening his thick neck. It was only the previous day that he had listened to Huon’s testimony and felt the old memories bob to the surface like a week-old corpse in a muddy river.

  He saw that Huon’s eyes had rolled back into his head. Menhay felt a frisson of pure superstitious fear. He was a teenager again, a novitiate at the wat, dressed in saffron robes and feeling the presence of otherworldly elements in the rituals of the monks. The vacant eyes of the dead man were terrifying, as if the vision of his own impending death had robbed him of his sight.

  Menhay sighed and walked into the room slowly. He had to focus on the dead man, not the ghosts pushing at the periphery of his imagination. He poked the victim with his foot. Huon was stiff – he’d been dead for at least a few hours. He knelt down and felt the skin of his forehead, his fingers brushing against the furrows of scar tissue. The corpse was cold, so much colder than he ever got used to, the skin clammy in the morning humidity. He tried to move the victim’s arm – rigor mortis had set in but the process was not yet complete. The pathologist would narrow the time for him but it seemed likely that Huon had been killed the previous evening and grown cold over the course of a long cool night. Menhay was quite prepared to back his own preliminary judgment as to the time of death. He was a middle-aged Cambodian man – he had seen his share of killing and death. He had an instinct for it. It was why he had become a policeman – to channel his memories into something positive. He looked down at the victim again. There was not a whole lot of positive right now. A witness had been killed on the grounds of the war crimes tribunal. There would be hell to pay when it became known. He toyed with the idea of trying to keep the killing under wraps. Surely it was better not to taint the ECCC? To let them get on with the business of seeking justice for past atrocities? This man lying dead had already been a victim so many times. He would not want his death to impede his revenge.